Other Words for Love
by sleapyGazelle
Summary: Klance week - Day 3 - Scars. Post-season 2 (Set after S02E13). Lance's POV. Rating for mild language. Sequel to "Radio Silence" but can be read as a stand-alone.


You're so drained. Drained from the mission, from the uncertainty of losing Shiro, from being zapped by Haggar's magic, from listening to Slav calculate the probabilities of further success. Remembering Shiro's past advice, you sentimentally decide to hit the training deck to unwind. You are entirely unsurprised to find Keith there—does that guy even do anything in his free time besides train? But what you were _not_ expecting was your rival dual-wielding his bayard and his extended Marmorra blade against a training bot. He's sweating with exertion, breath labored. He doesn't seem to have heard the door slide open; and you're rooted to the spot, staring openly.

"End training sequence." Keith takes a deep breath and retracts his blades. He tucks the luxite knife into the holster on his belt and pulls up the hem of his T-shirt to wipe at the sweat on his face. It's too tight to do much good though, so he gives up and reaches behind his head, yanking the shirt off altogether.

You were _not_ ready, and your audible intake of breath alerts him to your presence. He turns, pinning you with his gaze, expression unreadable. You weren't fortified to see Keith's bare chest either, and you feel the blush on your face and neck. The tensest moments of your life pass as you match that gaze, until you succumb to the urge to run your mouth—your go-to solution for tense situations.

"So Mullet, I bet you think you're extra cool now with that new shoulder scar."

His brow knits in confusion. "Are you _serious_?"

And okay, maybe it was the wrong thing to say—insensitive, even—but you're onto something here, and this is how it always works between you two, right? You lick your lips and keep talking.

"Not to boast, but I've got badass scars too that tell some pretty heroic stories."

His face is blank now, as if he's at a complete loss for how to react to your priorities. You will him to understand that this banter is easier than talking about what you've all just gone through. Part of you wonders if he _does_ understand, because he hasn't actually told you to fuck off yet. You wonder if he also understands that it's easier for you to get under his skin than it is to look into his eyes and say you're relieved he made it off the Galra ship alright.

Throwing confidence you don't really feel into your steps, you approach him. You tilt your head to bare the side of your neck, where a raised pink thread of skin extends up behind your ear to disappear into your hair. "This was from the jellyfish I had to wear on my head to block the Baku's mind control rays when I helped save the mermaids."

And maybe you didn't think this well-enough through, because when you feel a hot finger gently trace the mark you just pointed out, your blood runs cold. Keith takes a step to your side and his finger blazes a path to the back of your neck where a more faded scar begins. Your breath is shaky as you struggle to keep talking.

"Th-that one was from Sendak's bomb."

"You took the full force of that blast on your back," Keith recalls. "This must go pretty far down."

You hesitate only for a moment before you're reaching back to take off your shirt. The scar—faint because you were luckily wearing your armor that day—does indeed run all the way down your back, the rest of it covered by your jeans. His fingers brush across your back once, and the single touch is enough to rock a shiver through you. Your mind likes to default to competition when it comes to Keith, so it immediately occurs to you that this is unfair; if he gets to touch yours, you get to touch his. You turn toward him, keeping your eyes trained away from his face and focus on his right shoulder. You run your forefinger and thumb down the corded slash, feeling how different it is from the pale skin on either side of it. Your balled-up shirt is clutched tightly in your other hand. He cocks his head to the side, and you feel more than see his eyes scrutinizing you intensely. Something about this moment tells you there's no point in keeping it in anymore. "Keith," you whisper, without looking up or pulling back your hand, "I'm glad you're okay."

His chest swells at your words, and it helps assure you that there's nothing wrong with caring for him like this. He moves a fraction of an inch closer, hand coming up to rest on yours where it still rests on his shoulder. "I'm glad you're okay too."


End file.
